


gently the dawn

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Interspecies Sex, Large Insertion, Light Angst, Lorg Orc Appreciation Club, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic Makes It Easier, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, ambiguous ending, slightly rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27951404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: Anduin goes to him in the night.If any member of their unlikely militia mark Anduin’s passing through the night camp, they say nothing. It’s late and their company has taken shelter somewhere in southern Durotar, pitching tents among the ruins of an old Alliance keep. Only a portion of the outer wall remains, the rest crumbled to dust and rubble.Anduin thinks it fitting that this part of his inheritance be only remembered as moldering rock. He wishes every day that he might heal the wounds left by long years of war; it’s somewhat heartening that even these scars are fading.
Relationships: Varok Saurfang/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	gently the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem 'A Gift' by Leonora Speyer
> 
> This is intentionally tagged as having an ambiguous ending. This is a pretty self-indulgent piece because baybee I love some Lorg Orc, and is complete as is. Set just before the Mak'gora, but feel very free to imagine whatever you like!

*

If any member of their unlikely militia mark Anduin’s passing through the night camp, they say nothing. It’s late and their company has taken shelter somewhere in southern Durotar, pitching tents among the ruins of an old Alliance keep. Only a portion of the outer wall remains, the rest crumbled to dust and rubble.

Anduin thinks it fitting that this part of his inheritance be only remembered as moldering rock. He wishes every day that he might heal the wounds left by long years of war; it’s somewhat heartening that even these scars are fading.

This night, Anduin leaves Halimane and the vestments of kinghood in his tent. Unarmed, he walks in the Light, and the only thing he carries with him is a small bag of apothecary’s remedies, packed for whatever might ail any warrior’s body.

There’s a low light still emanating from Saurfang’s tent. There are no guards posted nearby, so Anduin ducks beneath the flap and stands just inside, waiting first to be acknowledged lest he earn a swift blade for his unwelcome intrusion. Saurfang is sitting on a makeshift sleeping pallet of blankets and furs, inspecting his armor with great care, working by an orb of witchlight to massage beeswax into one of the wide leather straps to keep it supple.

Saurfang grunts and sniffs the air without turning. “You should be sleeping.”

“The same could be said of you,” Anduin lobs back in gently accented Orcish. He keeps his voice pitched low, his consonants too round, his tongue heavy in his mouth, inexperienced at the language but not inept. Saurfang’s tent is set well apart from the others, but sound carries in the night and there are more than several among their company with keen hearing. “Would it not be wiser for you to rest?”

“I’m beyond the need for it,” Saurfang says, brow drawn in concentration. “The battle fever may not take me ever again, but orcs are built to endure much and rest little. Can you taste the blood in the air yet?”

“No,” Anduin says, going to Saurfang’s side. “But I’m no veteran like yourself.”

“Veteran,” Saurfang scoffs. “If there was ever a fancy word to describe great warriors in the same fell swoop as those who simply fail to die.”

Saurfang sets his armor aside on the canvas floor, for lack of another place to put it. Their company has no luxuries and travels with few supplies, so their accommodations are mean, even for a war party’s camp. Anduin suspects even if they did have furnishings, Saurfang might not avail himself of them anyhow.

Anduin goes to his knees by Saurfang, unasked for and uninvited. He puts a hand on Saurfang’s bare chest, feeling the heat of it, palm small against the broad barrel of muscle that no human man could manage. Orcs are not unhandsome creatures, if one tends towards an appreciation of muscle and martial art.

As of late, Anduin has come to admire even the weathered look of Saurfang’s craggy face, itself a veteran of more than a hundred battles — and not always the victor, from the landscape of its scars. It’s not a lovely visage, not even by orcish standards, but not all wonderful things need be lovely.

“What’s the King of Stormwind doing in my tent?” Saurfang asks, low. His jewelry glints in the low magical light, his mouth a lazy downward slope, and he makes a path with his eyes from Anduin’s head all the way down his berobed body.

Even in the dim light it must be clear that Anduin wears naught more than the simple white shift clothing him. If this were Stormwind, he might have proper ceremonial vestments and fragrant censers to purge ill humors, but here in the wilds of Durotar he has only borrowed clothes and his own heart.

“I’m here to ease your pain,” Anduin says, unable to keep the tremor from his voice. He’s never done this before, not outside of solitary prayer. “Not as the King of Stormwind, but as a priest, to bring you such respite as the Light allows.”

“Respite? I go to my death, boy,” Saurfang says, but he doesn’t sneer it, is not cruel about it. “I’ve been going towards it for years.”

“I know,” Anduin says, shivering. On the morrow, Anduin might find his own doom, too, should Sylvanas rout them on the battlefield.

“Then you know that respite will come for me soon enough,” Saurfang says.

“Please,” Anduin says. He’s placed them both on this path. The Light calls to him to heal, to make whole what is damaged. He can’t mend the old wounds in Saurfang’s heart, but he hopes he might grant Saurfang a moment of peace before the storm. “Allow me?”

Saurfang’s jaw works. He doesn’t shove Anduin away. “Very well. Work your spells, little priest.”

Anduin undoes the bag from his hip and sets it on the furs, out of the way, settling more comfortably at Saurfang’s side. If Saurfang allows him to apply any salves, it will be well after Anduin calls on his command of the Light. “May I touch you?”

“Anywhere you think needs attention,” Saurfang answers with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Though I don’t know what you plan to accomplish. All _my_ wounds are old.”

“Even old wounds can still be soothed,” Anduin says. “You cover your limp very well. A bad right knee?”

Saurfang shoots him an uneasy glare; he’s been caught off guard by Anduin and it’s plain he doesn’t like it overmuch. “Not even my own warriors know that. How did you?”

“I could feel it when you came close,” Anduin says, laying his hands on Saurfang’s kneecap. He can sense it almost immediately, lingering beneath the flesh and sinew. “Sense the hurt, like a sliver of glass in the tip of your finger. Here, extend it.”

“You know your business, boy,” Saurfang grants and allows Anduin free reign of the limb. He growls a little when Anduin digs his fingers in behind the knee, a warning rumble of sound, and Anduin ignores it as useless bluster.

He’s seen Saurfang take an ogre’s club directly to the chest and stand up howling. Anduin can do little harm to Saurfang with his bare hands. Instead, fingers pressed into the joint, he allows the Light to slip through him, the soft glow of it emanating from his arms, crackling down his fingertips, radiating from even his hair.

The joint resists all of his initial efforts. The original break was once badly healed, the muscle pulling not quite right, each step injuring Saurfang’s misaligned knee in small ways. Anduin must coax it much of the way and then force the last bit. A burst of radiance sets the aggravated tissue.

“There,” Anduin says, not entirely satisfied, but healing the thing entirely would perhaps require a brace of mules and an unfortunate number of chains to break and set the offending bone as it should have been when it was first injured. “It won’t last forever, but you might have some relief.”

Saurfang flexes the limb. His fingers still on the scarred knee, Anduin can feel none of the deep stiffness and needling pain that was present before.

“Have you been to Orgrimmar before?” Saurfang asks, almost conversational, watching Anduin’s hands as they pass a second time, suffused with a shimmering light, over his extended knee.

“Yes,” Anduin says, bowing his head to conceal his expression. His last visit had been somewhat less than ideal. “It’s unlikely I’ll be welcomed with open arms, even if we take the city.”

Saurfang grunts. “Not for war. Have you been during a time of peace? Seen her people in the streets?”

“No. What was it like?” Anduin asks, laying his hands on Saurfang’s elbow. He feels around with magic; the limb is not so bad as Saurfang’s knee, so it requires little effort to produce a similar effect.

“Alive with sound,” Saurfang says. “Happy, for a time. Orgrimmar was built to be a fortress, but also a place to raise a new generation. Would that any of us could still cling to that dream.”

“We’ve all lost much,” Anduin says softly. He’s dressed the dead himself, bent and sweating on the battlefield, wrapped the cold and stinking flesh with his own two hands. As King of Stormwind, he need not serve in such a way, but as a priest of the Light, tending the dead is as much his duty as healing the living.

“I lost my mate. I lost my son,” Saurfang says. His tone is even, gentle, not accusatory. “Can your Light ever heal those wounds?”

“No,” Anduin says, thinking back to his teachings. The Light loves and the Light forgives, but there’s little remedy for the sorrow and longing that comes with losing a loved one. That must come internally. “I think nothing may, unless you would like to forget them. But I could think of nothing worse than no longer remembering my father.”

“You’re a good son,” Saurfang says, turning his face away. “You’re a good man, too. I hope you remain a good man, after the vultures descend to pick at the carcasses left by this pointless war.”

“No talk of war tonight,” Anduin says softly. He turns Saurfang’s arm over and caresses it from elbow to wrist, then spreads his palm out flat against Saurfang’s. “Let us have a little moment of peace and healing. Those loved and lost would desire it of us.”

Saurfang bares his fangs — a grimace, not a snarl. “Pretty words.”

“True words,” Anduin says. “Do you think your mate would have you suffer alone and miserable when there are those of us who would render you aid?”

Speaking of Saurfang’s mate is a gamble. One that could very well come to blows – but Saurfang only flinches and squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, as if remembering.

“You wield weapons you don’t know how to use, boy,” Saurfang says, gaze steady on Anduin’s face. He looks tired, as though he’s seen one battle too many. “Careful how you swing them.”

“I’ve never loved someone like that, not in that way, but I often think the same of my mother and father,” Anduin says. “Is it cruel to speak the truth?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Saurfang says. “The truth leaves scars as sure as any blade.”

Anduin rises to his knees and puts his hands on Saurfang’s shoulder, to the bare, ugly knot of tissue at the joint. “What scars might I ease the memory of tonight?”

“You’ve done a fine enough job with the ones you can see,” Saurfang says. “No more will ever be asked of you.”

“Then tell me, where did this one come from? A spear, perhaps?” he asks. He closes his eyes and reaches deep, feeling around with the Light, and banishes old pain in Saurfang’s bones. Beneath the skin he senses something hard, unnatural.

“The point of a halberd, broken off and festered,” Saurfang says, “many years before I drank fel blood. I took a fever and nearly died.”

“There are surgeons in Stormwind who might dig it out with a little effort,” Anduin says. “I could grant you their service, should we live.”

“What nearly killed me is now part of me,” Saurfang says, shaking his head. His hair spills loose around his shoulders — not grey, but silvery in the dim light, like hammered steel. “That’s true of all of us.”

“I suppose you’re correct,” Anduin says. He reaches up and touches a lock of Saurfang’s hair, running it between his fingers. “I’ll defer to your wisdom on the matter.”

He doesn’t know, precisely, how the mood shifts – or if it had already shifted when he simply wasn’t paying attention. But Anduin braces his hand on Saurfang’s broad knee, leaning half into Saurfang’s lap to reach for a faded scar on his throat, when Saurfang’s eyes skate down to the gaping neck of Anduin’s robe.

Anduin feels his face go hot, but he doesn’t withdraw. An odd, unexpected flutter of anticipation swells beneath his breastbone. Saurfang reaches out and steadies Anduin with a hand on his hip.

“Are all humans so eager to violate personal boundaries?” Saurfang asks with a slight curl of his lip. Anduin’s still learning how to read orcish moods, but he’s fairly certain Saurfang is teasing him.

“No,” Anduin says, ducking his head to hide his smile. “I’ve been informed to my face that I’m intolerably insolent on at least two separate occasions. Behind my back, many more, I’d wager.”

“I see,” Saurfang says. His hand moves, pressing against the small of Anduin’s back, and Anduin sucks a surprised breath in through his teeth.

“What’s this one from?” Anduin asks, laying his hand on Saurfang’s furrowed brow. Their faces are close enough he can feel Saurfang’s breath stir his hair. His own heart is thundering beneath his breast.

This isn’t what he came to offer Saurfang, but only because he didn’t think of it.

Saurfang’s eyes flicker away from Anduin’s and down to his mouth. “I don’t remember. Many of them are from just after we passed through the Dark Portal. My mind was rarely my own.”

“Forgive me,” Anduin says, withdrawing a little with a frown. He feels as though he may have fumbled an opportunity. “My curiosity has always overcome my sense of diplomacy.”

“I thought you were no king tonight,” Saurfang says. He doesn’t seem offended; in fact, the hand holding Anduin tenses, as if to keep him from leaving. “What use does a priest have for diplomacy in the tent of his patient?”

“Perhaps nothing, but I must look to it all the same,” Anduin says. He ducks his head and looks up at Saurfang from beneath his lashes. “Though it’s good to be treated like a man, not a king.”

“You’re being coy,” Saurfang accuses. “Do you desire something more tonight? I have difficulty reading human subtleties.”

“I’ve only now had a thought you might desire companionship,” Anduin says. “I thought — “ he hesitates “— I didn’t intend to ask, but now I wonder if perhaps you might favor me with your company.”

Saurfang shifts towards Anduin. They’re nearly of a height, at eye level with Saurfang seated and Anduin on his knees, but Saurfang is so much larger than him. Even a single one of Saurfang’s well-muscled arms is nearly as thick as Anduin’s waist, and the thought of that great bulk pressing down on Anduin is shockingly good.

“My company in conversation or my company in bed?” Saurfang asks evenly. The look he wears is calculating, but Anduin suspects him to be on equally unfamiliar ground. “Be clear.”

Anduin’s stomach twists with the thrill of Saurfang’s bluntness. Mouth dry, he asks, “Which would you prefer?”

Saurfang reaches up and cups the back of Anduin’s head, nostrils flaring. His touch is gentle even though his hand is so massive that he can cradle the whole of Anduin’s skull in his palm. “I don’t need your pity, boy, if that’s what this is.”

“I offer none,” Anduin says. He grips Saurfang by the forearm, holding him hard, and turns his face to plant a single kiss on Saurfang’s wrist. “Only – ” he pauses, considering his words, “ – perhaps there may be a little joy tonight, on the eve of battle. For _both_ of us.”

“I’m sure there are many others who would have you,” Saurfang says, but his eyes are on Anduin’s mouth now.

“They’d have their king. But I’m not your king, and you might have _me_ instead,” Anduin says. His bed has never been warmed before; dalliance is dangerous for a young king without an heir. “You would — be the first. Do me the honor?”

Saurfang’s expression shifts, less remote and troubled, with perhaps a glint of interest. “I’ll hurt you,” he says, which is not a refusal.

“I’ve been hurt before,” Anduin says. He has the scars to show for it.

“Not like this,” Saurfang says and tumbles Anduin into his furs. He moves so swiftly that Anduin’s heart speeds, tensing reflexively before he can force himself to relax. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Anduin says, looking up at Saurfang, jaw set, chest already heaving. He’s certain no lasting harm will come to him here. Saurfang has had ample opportunity to betray him; this is safe for Anduin, as well, in its own manner.

A big hand pushes up Anduin’s robe, more careful than Anduin would have expected. “Move yourself, boy, unless you want me to tear this off your body.”

Anduin lifts his hips and Saurfang peels the robes from him inch by inch and discards them in a heap. Naked on Saurfang’s furs, he shivers, flesh affected by the night’s faint chill. Saurfang looks down at him and strokes up Anduin’s bare thighs, studying each inch of Anduin’s body.

It’s not as though the invitations from others have been particularly subtle, and certainly not nonexistent. Anduin’s simply not availed himself of any of the offers, most being deeply unwise to accept. This, though, is something he can keep entirely for himself, not as Anduin Wrynn, King of Stormwind, but Anduin Wrynn, a young man taking a lover he trusts, simply for the uncomplicated pleasure of it.

He braces his bare foot against Saurfang’s knee, tilting his chin. It’s difficult to be defiant flat on his back and stripped down to his skin, but he asks, “Do you find me acceptable?”

“I find you pale and hairless,” Saurfang says, brows drawn, but he looks again, taking in Anduin from head to hip. His expression holds a glimmer of hunger. “I suppose your own kind must think you handsome.”

Anduin laughs, soft, and covers it with his hand. “Handsome? Perhaps not. ‘Face like a lass.’ I hear what they say when they think I can’t hear.”

“Do they think you some flower, waiting to be plucked?” Saurfang asks, the words mocking, but his derision not directed at Anduin. He tilts Anduin’s face from one side to another, fingers under Anduin’s chin. “No. Pretty indeed. Small and sharp. Like a good dagger.”

That strikes Anduin somewhere in his chest, like a blow, and he goes hot with the pleasure of the compliment. There’s no space that separates this observation and the touch that follows. Saurfang must want what Anduin offers, since he bends so swiftly and so casually to take it.

Saurfang’s blunt tusks scrape over Anduin’s belly on his way up Anduin’s torso. He does not kiss so much as mouth at Anduin’s skin, a big hand on Anduin’s hip, thumb stroking the sensitive skin at the crease of Anduin’s thigh. Anduin shivers, feeling exposed, his untouched cock already half-hard between his legs.

The length of which is abruptly dragged, damp and with a delicious friction, across Saurfang’s belly when Saurfang settles over him, face to face. The sweep of Saurfang’s thumb increases in pressure, until he’s pressing a bruise into Anduin’s hip, and Anduin groans at the subtle, wonderful pain-pleasure of it, the Light flaring to life in the back of his mind until he feels like he must be glowing from the inside out. He rocks his hips up, seeking the contact.

“Do you enjoy rough treatment?” Saurfang asks, studying Anduin’s expression as he squeezes.

“Yes, I think,” Anduin says, half a gasp. He reaches up for Saurfang’s face and takes it between his hands. “Just a little. Just enough.”

Saurfang hums in response, like he understands precisely. Perhaps he does, the ecstasy and duality of it. Light and the void beyond it. It’s there in the rough, careless, delicious way Saurfang reaches between them and fondles between Anduin’s legs and also in the set of his mouth as it softens generously when Anduin kisses him.

Anduin makes a sound when Saurfang’s thumb presses against the opening of his body. He pulls back just enough to say, “Please.”

“You could not possibly take me this way,” Saurfang says doubtfully.

“I want to try,” Anduin says. He can feel Saurfang’s girth stirring. “Let me see you.”

“Bold boy,” Saurfang says, approving. He settles on his knees between Anduin’s thighs, pushing them wide to accommodate his size, and undoes the laces of his trousers. “You may have cause to regret your eagerness.”

Even only beginning to stir, he’s bigger than any man Anduin has ever seen. He cups the length of his soft cock in his palm and strokes, the shape of it mostly familiar to Anduin, if not the stature, and Anduin watches as it grows with each rough caress. Anduin is no small man, but Saurfang’s erect cock is easily approaching the size of Anduin’s forearm and as thick at the head as a woman’s closed fist.

“Allow me to try,” Anduin says again, eyes fixed on the way Saurfang is stroking himself. His cock jumps at the thought of it, of taking all he can of Saurfang into his body.

“You’ll get very little sleep tonight if you want that,” Saurfang says. “There are other ways to enjoy a lover.”

“No. Please, show me what it takes,” Anduin says, easing back onto the furs. He spreads his thighs wider, lifting his hips, face hot.

“Open your bag,” Saurfang directs. “You have oil?”

“Yes.” Anduin gropes for the bottle, finding the correct one half by feel, using his thumb to count the knots in the strings tied around the necks of the linen-wrapped ampoules.

He tries to offer it to Saurfang, but Saurfang refuses, pushing his outstretched hand away. “Open it. Let me watch you do it.”

Face on fire, Anduin unstoppers the bottle and nearly spills the thing. It drips over his hand, cool and syrupy, and he sets it aside to fumble around behind his own balls.

“Relax,” Saurfang says. He leans closer, takes Anduin’s hand by the wrist, guides Anduin’s slippery fingers to where his body opens and up against the clenched muscle. “Here.”

He presses the tip of Anduin’s own finger into his hole, encouraging. The stretch is surprising for something so small. It occurs to Anduin a bit belatedly that Saurfang is easing him into it and the gentleness of all that patient regard makes Anduin squirm a little. “I can take more.”

“Not if you wish to walk in the morning,” Saurfang says, fixated on Anduin’s fingers. “Fuck yourself for me.”

The angle is all wrong at first, but Anduin works at it, pushing in and out until he’s wet enough that one finger slides past easily. It seems a strange feeling, not entirely pleasing, and his cock flags a little until Saurfang drips oil over his own knuckles, watching Anduin with a subtle heat to his expression.

When his own finger is replaced by Saurfang’s, he understands now why he needed to make himself ready. The thick digit pushes past, and any headway he made in opening himself feels nearly pointless next to the stretch of it. Saurfang presses deep, then deeper, until he’s buried all the way up to his wide palm and Anduin is gasping, startled by the sudden fullness. “Light.”

“We’ve only just begun,” Saurfang says, mouth curved up on one side. “Save your prayers for taking my cock, boy.”

He curls his finger and touches something inside Anduin. Anduin’s lungs nearly fail him. The feel of it is so good that his head is filled with the Light for a moment, blazing sweetly through him like a single sunbeam piercing a dense forest canopy.

“ _Light_ ,” Anduin repeats through his clenched jaw, muffling his words with his palm. “Again, please.”

“Greedy boy,” Saurfang accuses. His voice is a low, grating rasp, nearly a growl. He looks down on Anduin hungrily.

“You give me cause to feel greedy, _old man_.” The retort is bitten, muffled, strangled into near silence, but Saurfang chuckles all the same.

And he pushes a second finger into Anduin, who sees no sunbeam, but _spots_ instead. The first few thrusts hurt, and no small amount, a little beyond the keen ache that he expected, but Anduin bears it with silent gasps, tears welling unexpectedly, his mind full of heady brightness and deep shadow. Saurfang looks down on him, watching shrewdly. “Breathe deep, little king. Look at me.”

“Is it always like this?” Anduin whispers as the sharp edge of it subsides to a duller heat, a stretch that feels odd, not bad. In a moment, under the sweep of Saurfang's palm over his abdomen and the slow rock of Saurfang’s fingers inside him, it’s as if he never knew discomfort at all. He can feel himself being worked so gently now, feel the room being made inside of him for something larger.

“No,” Saurfang says, face hovering near Anduin’s. “Bed a smaller lover, or be less hasty, and you’ll have no great trouble.”

Anduin closes his hand around one of Saurfang’s tusks and reels him in, kissing his wide mouth. They’re much too differently shaped to do it properly, so Anduin makes an exploration of Saurfang’s broad face with his roving mouth. Teeth and tongue involved in the ordeal, he licks and nips across Saurfang’s lips, skirting the tusks with care, and presses delicate little kisses to Saurfang’s wide snub nose, to his heavy brow, to his carven, scarred cheeks.

Each time Saurfang moves in him, Anduin sucks in an airy little breath, panting for it, the growing fire building until he feels like his own limbs barely belong to him. Saurfang lips along Anduin’s cheek and jaw, then down his neck. He scrapes his teeth across Anduin’s bare skin. Mouth against Anduin’s ribs, he asks, “Another?”

“Yes,” Anduin says instantly, now lax and boneless with the building sweetness that suffuses his chest and belly. “Anything you want.”

“Breathe deep,” Saurfang warns. The third finger is not nearly so awful a thing as the second — there’s a moment of pressure and Anduin clenches, until Saurfang makes what must pass as a soothing sound for an orc, and then he’s pushing steadily inside as if Anduin’s body has simply surrendered.

Anduin presses his mouth to the top of Saurfang’s head, inhaling the warm, pleasantly earthy scent of his scalp, fingers tugging the long grey hair. He’s trembling all over wildly, steadied only by Saurfang’s patience and his own tenuous grip on Saurfang’s muscular body.

He loses track of how long they stay like that, Anduin gripping at Saurfang’s neck and shoulders until his palms are sweating, until his skin smells like Saurfang’s body, like campfire smoke and leather and the bright, coppery musk of orcish sweat. Saurfang works him over until Anduin spills, trembling and shocked, onto his own belly.

Saurfang dips his head and licks Anduin clean, the broad sweep of his tongue surprisingly soft, and then does not relent in his ministrations, even when it becomes nearly unbearable.

A moment longer, perhaps two — after Anduin has only just surrendered to the heady idea of being relentlessly taken without respite — and Saurfang says into his ear, “On your knees for me, little king.”

He turns over, dizzy, the sudden rush of blood from his body to his head exacerbating the issue. Face down, forehead against the furs, ass in the air, he waits, forcing himself to breathe deeply and as evenly as he can manage.

It seems impossible, so impossible, even as slick as Anduin is, as well-used and deliciously open as he is. The tip presses uncomfortably against him, stretching him beyond even Saurfang’s massive fingers, and he rocks back against it for more, frustrated in a way that’s difficult to articulate.

“Relax,” Saurfang murmurs near his ear, the rumble of it curling Anduin’s toes. “Relax, you soft little creature.”

Anduin thinks he can relax no further, but he sucks in a deep breath, slackening his belly, and pushes back against Saurfang.

The head goes in with a pop and Saurfang’s hand is already over Anduin’s mouth, stifling his involuntary cry. It doesn’t quite hurt, the way being prepared as it is, but Anduin’s body protests the intrusion and he jerks and squirms while Saurfang eases in and in and in, until he pushes against something inside of Anduin, some deeper tightness. Muffled, he whines, “It won’t. It can’t,” even as he pushes back eagerly.

“It will,” Saurfang says. He changes the angle of it, lifting Anduin’s hips, settling into him just a little more. He reaches around and puts Anduin’s hand on his own belly and rocks ever so gently. “Feel me here? I’ll give you every inch if only you can open for me.”

And then Anduin’s body surrenders again when he thinks he can give no more. He can _feel_ Saurfang’s cock in his belly, buried so deep it nudges hard against his palm from the inside, and he makes a shocked sound, biting down on Saurfang’s hand. The entire world goes blurry, fuzzy around the edges, and when his vision finally resolves, Saurfang is rocking against him with the gentlest thrusts, only moving a little.

Saurfang pushes one finger into Anduin’s mouth, forcing his jaw open, thick and strong on his tongue, and Anduin sucks hard at it, teeth scraping greedily across Saurfang’s knuckle.

Light take him, he feels as though he’s floating. The gentle back-and-forth of Saurfang’s thrusts, barely moving, can’t even be considered to be pleasing on their own. But he grinds away, shifting deep inside Anduin, slow at first, until it’s clear to both of them that Anduin’s body will allow the penetration, and then faster.

He pulls out, retreating fully, and Anduin feels him pouring more oil, his hole left open and vulnerable in the absence of Saurfang’s cock. Anduin shudders as big fingers push it into him, getting him filthy with it, the cool herbal infusion a balm on his wonderfully tormented flesh. Before he can protest Saurfang’s absence, he’s being spread again, even easier than before, and this time taking all of that length is barely a struggle at all.

Saurfang grips Anduin’s hips with both hands and, for the first time, thrusts in earnest.

It’s like being borne to the ground by a battering ram. Anduin would be flattened if not for Saurfang’s iron control and his steadying grip. Anduin must concentrate steadily on not crying out, a task which he finds impossible when Saurfang shifts once more and draws a long, low, unfettered moan from Anduin, a belly-deep sound that goes hand in hand with the intense shock of pleasure that runs through him.

“Quiet now,” Saurfang says. “You’ll wake the camp. Unless, of course, you’d enjoy your men watching me take you.”

The unexpected headiness of that thought, the untethered shock and power of it, hits Anduin like a blow and on the next thrust he spills untouched, cock twitching as he spends over the furs, over his bare belly and thighs.

Saurfang chuckles, low and warm, the sound palpable, and runs a hand up Anduin’s spine. “Should I stop?”

“No,” Anduin says, gathering himself, dizzy. He feels as though his skin is on fire and his limbs are trembling. “No, please. A moment only, then keep going.”

“Brave _and_ foolish,” Saurfang says, cupping Anduin’s hip to steady him, “but you bear such indignities well.”

Anduin bites his lip hard, turning his head. He can only see Saurfang piecemeal from the corner of his eye, a vast and looming presence behind him. “This isn’t an indignity.”

Saurfang has no retort for that, or none he’s willing to give, but he springs to motion; Anduin’s moment to recover is gone. With his cock spent, every move feels horribly tender, the edge of it no longer dulled by Anduin’s own burning need.

Anduin hangs his head between his shoulders. Tears prick at his eyes, tighten his throat. Light forgive him, but it feels good to lay down his crown and sword and be a man for a time, to let himself be had without shame or artifice. Saurfang’s cock drives every foul doubt from his mind, leaving only a perfect, shining heat that builds and builds again.

Saurfang wraps both his arms around Anduin’s torso and lifts him as though Anduin weighs nothing at all. He mustn’t, as filled with warmth as he is, the pleasure of his body creeping back in with each deep thrust. Saurfang turns Anduin in his grip and spears him again, pressing Anduin back into the furs with a startling gentleness.

Face to face, Saurfang looks down from above while he fills Anduin, each deep, rolling thrust sparking heat within him. Anduin can struggle to remain silent, but even with all his discipline he can’t keep the ecstasy from his expression. He grips anywhere he can touch, exploring the flat, hard planes of Saurfang’s body in fits and starts, afraid of nothing and open to anything.

All the while Saurfang looks down at him, rugged face slackened with pleasure, his eyes glassy and dark and his mouth working loose. The fearsome scowl is gone, replaced by new, wonderful wrinkles — around his mouth, at the corners of his eyes, in the pinch of his concentrating brow.

It’s a long, long climb to Anduin’s next peak, but he closes in on it once more. The feeling starts in his toes this time, and he hooks his heels around the backs of Saurfang’s corded thighs, encouraging his thrusts. It all grows ragged near the end, falling slowly apart as if time itself might come to a halt and leave them suspended at some unknown precipice together.

And then —

There’s one final thrust, as deep as Saurfang can push, muscles flexing, and then feels the hot gush of Saurfang’s spend leaking out of him around Saurfang’s softening cock. Anduin tumbles headlong into his own orgasm as if he’s been pushed from a high cliff into cold waters, stunned. He’s held down by Saurfang’s massive palm until he comes back to his senses and then Saurfang slowly releases him, sliding himself so very slowly from Anduin’s well-used body.

Saurfang slumps against him, half on top of Anduin, and presses his fingers between Anduin’s legs, feeling around with great care. When he raises his fingers to look at them, he must find the results satisfactory, because he throws an arm over Anduin’s belly and makes a deep humming noise. He pushes his blunted snout against Anduin’s skin and inhales deeply.

Anduin puts his hand on Saurfang’s face after a moment and says, with heartfelt gratitude, “Ah, Light. A memory enough for two lifetimes.”

He grimaces only a little; he’s filthy now, stinking of sweat and travel and sex, and he can feel himself still open and tender and leaking.

One orange eye regards him, then closes. Saurfang sighs with his entire body, a great gusty sound of satisfaction and resignation. He runs a hand up Anduin’s side. “Can’t let a boy go into battle with a bed never warmed.”

Anduin lays his arm over Saurfang’s, feeling his chest tighten unexpectedly. Hesitantly, he offers, “I suspect I should return to my tent before dawn,” in case Saurfang would prefer he leave.

“Wiser to remain here,” Saurfang says. He pulls Anduin just a little closer and presses his mouth against Anduin’s hair. “The whole camp will stink of our fucking if you open that tent flap now. I’m still among the living. If I'm guaranteed this night and no more, pass it with me.”

Anduin curls against him in the furs, pressed to Saurfang’s chest with the steady thundering of Saurfang’s vast heart filling his ear, and prays long into the night to the Light for the gates of Orgrimmar flung open in surrender.


End file.
